


Stalling (my love for you)

by BetweenTheStars



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Sex, Bearded Steve Rogers, Blow Jobs, Bottom Bucky Barnes, Foreplay, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Pre-World War II Bucky Barnes, Prostitute Bucky Barnes, Sex Work, Sex Worker Bucky Barnes, Top Steve Rogers, Truck Driver Steve Rogers, a little bit of an age gap, and badass ones at that, author has lived in california their whole life and knows nothing about NJ, but i tried my best, natasha and clint are also prostitutes, steve is thirty and bucky is twenty-three
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-14
Updated: 2020-03-12
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:27:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23115475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BetweenTheStars/pseuds/BetweenTheStars
Summary: A little number scratched into the chipped paint of a bathroom wall sits in Steve’s peripherals. The same number is in his phone, in a contact, the big call button beckoning him to press.This is the worst decision of his life.He presses the button, waiting through the series of rings, and tenses up when a voice greets him. He wants to hang up, drop the phone; get the hell out of there with the thought in mind to never come back, never give himself the power to break his heart like this. And yet he sits, unmoving, and eventually the voice asks what he wants.“Just you,” Steve says into the phone. “I can’t take this anymore.”“You miss me already?” The voice asks, taunting him, playful and light.“Always, Buck,” Steve breathes. “So much.”
Relationships: Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov, James "Bucky" Barnes & Natasha Romanov, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 10
Kudos: 54





	Stalling (my love for you)

**Author's Note:**

> This is purely indulgent filth that somehow gained more plot than what I was going for. Un-beta’ed, so any mistakes are my own.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

A little number scratched into the chipped paint of a bathroom wall sits in Steve’s peripherals. The same number is in his phone, in a contact, the big call button beckoning him to press.

This is the worst decision of his life.

He presses the button, waiting through the series of rings, and tenses up when a voice greets him. He wants to hang up, drop the phone; get the hell out of there with the thought in mind to never come back, never give himself the power to break his heart like this. And yet he sits, unmoving, and eventually the voice asks what he wants.

“Just you,” Steve says into the phone. “I can’t take this anymore.”

“You miss me already?” The voice asks, taunting him, playful and light.

“Always, Buck,” Steve breathes. “So much.”

Steve is told that Bucky’s still stationed in the same place, that his motel is just down the road, to the left of the 7-Eleven. Steve goes there with his heart in his throat and his hands shoved haphazardly into his pockets. He’s paranoid. He’s been here enough times to be considered a regular, so much so that the beaten-up houses along the side of the road are like a second home to him, familiar in a way only his subconscious could stir up, make it feel like he’s been here all his life when he most certainly has not.

It’s not his job that brings him here anymore. It started out that way; a new location to transfer his truck to, a pit stop to bring his supplies. Stocking rural places is a particular job for a particular person. He likes it that way, _loves_ the countryside and the small towns with ridiculous names and varying people, from the average long-bearded old man with a dog and a shotgun, to the small-town girls looking for something new to involve themselves in. Steve just so happened to pass by for a quick piss and found the number on the stall, promising a good time for an affordable price. Money wasn’t a big deal to him back then. He’d earned enough to live his life drowning in gas station snacks and cheap hotels, and so calling up a hooker wasn’t that big of a leap. He supposed he was expected to act that way. What kind of truck driver doesn’t find themselves alone and with needs while on the road? But maybe that’s just a Steve thing.

That was then, though. It was before he met Bucky and learned every inch of his body. Before he met Natasha, too, and her boyfriend Clint, who’d dabbled into what they all did for a living a few times. Never with Steve, and not because Steve didn’t want him, or that he didn’t find him attractive. See, Clint just wasn’t his type; he was too much like his younger self. Steve didn’t even know he _had_ a type until Bucky came into his life. Since then, it’s all he’s ever found himself dreaming about: the thick, dark, brunette curls of Bucky’s short hair, his pouty pink lips, his smaller body and sideways smile. He’s lithe all over, his stomach flat, no abs, nothing that stands out as if he works out on the regular, but he’s still fit. He can take whatever’s thrown at him and he can dish it back with a surprising amount of strength. Steve loves that about him; loves that he can take and take and get it back in kind, ‘til he can no longer stand it anymore, ‘til he’s gotten his fill and then some, when he’s leaving him behind and earning the extra deep kiss Bucky always grants him before it’s time to go.

They’ve coupled three times before, all on separate occasions and all excluding the multiple rounds they went through. The first time was in Steve’s truck, on the front seat and then in the back, near the bunk. The second was at the motel, when Bucky’s trust had gotten strong enough to invite him to his semi-home. Their last time was in the same place on the same bed, where the sheets smell like Bucky and the pattern is ugly, but not ugly enough to be repulsed by. Steve’s fond of the place he calls his second home. He misses it while he’s away, curled up into his bunk with the white sheets and no pattern, nothing but the vast expanse of blankness in front of him, covering him up, keeping him warm but not _fulfilled_. At least not in the way he feels when Bucky’s in his arms, with his back pressed to Steve’s chest and his curls falling onto the pillow.

Steve walks past the parked cars near the motel, gravel crunching beneath his heavy boots. His pocketed right hand fumbles a bit, a hundred dollar bill gripped between his fingers, rolling it around the pad of his thumb. He’s got another twenty in his back pocket, just in case it’s not enough, even though he’s told it’s always overboard when he hands Bucky the money. Steve wants him to be safe, and fed, and warm during New Jersey’s coldest months. It’s a small price to pay.

Passing the rear end of a dodge pickup truck, Steve’s met with a familiar face and long red hair. Natasha sits on a dirty plastic chair with one leg crossed over the other, a cigarette between her dark red lips. She gives Steve a wave with the tips of her left hand, and when she takes the cigarette out and puffs a cloud upward, there’s lipstick stamped into the butt end.

“Steve,” She greets, a slight curl to her lips. Unlike his relationship with Bucky, Natasha is one of those people who he both admires and fears. She’s proved herself to be fierce when it comes to the people she surrounds herself with, and Steve relates to that dearly. It’s a good match, she’d be a nice friend to have around, but he’ll take what he has and run with it for as long as possible.

He motions towards the empty chair adjacent to the small wooden table by Natasha’s legs, a wordless _May I?_ She nods, and Steve sits, stretching his legs out.

“James should be coming out soon. He’s getting ready.”

“Ready for what?” Steve can’t help but ask.

Natasha gives him a look, assessing him. Steve’s in nothing but his usual wear: a button-down white and blue plaid shirt, a pair of roughed-up jeans with frayed edges near the bottoms, where it’s been scratching against his boots and the jagged step he takes to get in and out of his truck. His hands are passively against his thighs, palms turned downwards, sweaty.

“You,” is all Natasha says.

They sit like that for a while. Steve crossed the threshold of the town’s limits about thirty minutes ago and made it to his usual stop ten minutes afterwards. It’s a small town with a population of about six thousand, which is barely anything compared to where he grew up in Brooklyn. The houses are stretched out enough to make the town seem bigger than it actually is, and opposed to the usual tourist spots, this place is off to the side, so it’s new, although not rare, to get visitors who know where they’re going or where they are. Up ahead a few miles is the super Wal-Mart Steve is supposed to transport his items to in the morning, and then he’ll be back on the road by that afternoon.

He’s not going alone this time. He’s not planning to.

The door behind him and to his right squeaks as it’s being opened, the golden handle dulled out into a brass color from its many uses. Steve looks up from the wisp of smoke he’d been watching drift and catches Bucky’s eyes. _There he is_ ; all bright and beautiful, and smiling like it’s a surprise that Steve’s here.

Steve makes to stand up, but then Bucky’s putting a hand on his shoulder and pushing him down. “No need to rush,” He says smoothly, his thumb digging into Steve’s skin, his hand warm enough to feel through the thin cotton of the shirt.

Natasha says something about Clint ending his last session of the day, but Steve’s far too focused on Bucky to be able to formulate a response. He’s just as pretty as ever, if not more. The tank top Steve bought him last time they met hugs his torso loosely and hangs around his waist, where it’s bunched up at the top of his dark grey shorts. Bucky obviously wore it just for this occasion, knowing that Steve would notice it and preen to himself, just like he did when he’d seen Bucky put it on the first time and spread out on the mattress, a teasing comment on his lips about how long it was going to stay before getting forcibly thrown off.

While their conversation goes on, Steve moves his hands and invites Bucky into his lap by the use of a questioning glance. Bucky sits down, his back to Steve’s chest, leaning against him with a breathy sigh, like he’s entering a warm bubble bath after a long day of work. Two arms wrap around his waist, holding him securely.

“If he doesn’t pay well, then why’s Clint still sleeping with him?”

“He says he’s got connections. I’m taking care of it.”

Steve’s completely lost on the topic and he’s too afraid to butt in. He doesn’t have that right yet.

“Just ‘cause we’re whores doesn’t mean consent isn’t important here—”

“That’s not what this is about,” Natasha interrupts, patience written all over her face. “It’s Clint, James. When he says the money’s not worth it anymore, then it’s not worth it. I accept his choice and I encourage you to do the same. He really hates it here, you know.”

Bucky’s head turns, pressing his lips to the side of Steve’s face, breathing him in. He makes a small noise on the exhale, _mmm_ , and Steve’s chest fills with warmth at the way it rumbles through him. “I know,” He finally says, after a pregnant pause. “I do too.”

“You guys thinking about leaving?” Steve asks tentatively. This is his chance. This is how he asks what he’s been preparing to for almost a month now.

“Nah, not yet,” Bucky murmurs. “Clint hates the countryside; wants to move to the city, get a real job, have a family. A dog. The American dream.”

Natasha says nothing. She’s harder to get a read on than most of the people Steve’s met, but he can tell that there’s a tension in her shoulders, like maybe she’s on the fence about what to do. Steve leaves it alone, keeps it in the back of his head. Again, this isn’t his call or his place to talk. They’re not like that yet.

She flicks off the ashes of her cigarette into the tray on the wooden table, then stamps it out, a half an inch of tobacco left to smoke. If Clint’s in a session right now, then she must have been waiting out here for a while. Steve would be worried if he hadn’t already guessed that the room she stayed in wasn’t currently occupied, otherwise the curtains would be pulled shut.

Still in his lap, Bucks twists around and cups the side of Steve’s face, rubbing his thumb along the prickly hair of his beard. “You’re worrying,” He murmurs, “Stop it. No more thoughts when you’re around me.”

“I’m gonna need some extra help if you want my head _that_ clear,” Steve says, leaning into the touch. Just like his shoulder, Bucky’s hand is warm and gentle on his skin, and when he drops it down to get ahold of the back of Steve’s neck, the empty place tingles with the cool breeze sweeping through the lot. His lips press to Bucky’s briefly and part with a tiny smacking sound.

“Can you give me a minute?” Bucky asks, “You know where everything is. The remote should be in the same spot.”

Steve nods, says, “Of course,” and Bucky shuffles off of his lap and into a stance. Steve joins him a second later, flashing him a self-conscious smile as he runs his palms down the length of his upper thighs and heads inside, the door squeaking again on his entry.

His chance was blown, falling through his fingers like he’s grabbing handfuls of fine sand. Ma had always said that his heart was determined early on, and he supposed that she was right. A few nights together and months on end of day-dreaming and Steve can confidently say that Bucky’s the one he’d love to spend the rest of his life with, all cozied up in a shared Brooklyn apartment, away from the regulars, away from the small towns and pastures of cows; a place they can call home, where Bucky doesn’t have to worry about running low on money and Steve doesn’t have to disappear for weeks at a time. If he could just ask for Bucky to join him, if he could just get the courage—

But not now. _Later_. He has to get at least one last night in before going and screwing everything up. That’s all he could ever ask.

Steve sits on the bed, bouncing a little from the coiled springs in the mattress. His hand is reaching for the remote before he’s even had the chance to decide whether or not he wants to watch TV. He turns it on, listening to it crackle to life on a low volume, some infomercial channel about the world’s greatest non-stick pan, or something along the lines of it. The TV itself is an older model, with the big box attached to its grainy quality of a screen. Back home, in the apartment Steve sees at most once a month, he’s got a projector in his bedroom. What can he say, he likes the old-fashioned feel to it. A heavy appliance that needs to be installed is also a great thing to skip out on, not that he minds all that much.

He spends his livelong time anxiously picking at his nails and listening to the droning sounds of the infomercial guy. He’s half-hard, anticipation and images in his head, ones of Bucky’s smooth body and pink tongue, how his eyes flutter when something feels particularly good, how he gazes at Steve when they’re all tired out. _God, Steve loves him. He loves him with every fiber of his being and it’s bad, it’s so bad, but he can’t help it. He’s stuck, and he doesn’t want to be free again. He wants to wrap himself up in Bucky and never ever let go_.

“Didn’t peg you for a cookware guy,” Bucky says, the door clicking shut behind him. It startles Steve, who’d been staring listlessly at the TV and seeing past it, a thousand yard stare.

He looks away from the dull screen and gazes longingly at Bucky’s mouth, before pulling his gaze upwards, to his eyes; his icy blue eyes. “Me neither,” He says, wracking his brain. When he was paying attention, it was a non-stick pan they were trying to sell. Now it’s a barbecue that he’ll probably never remember the name of come tomorrow. Steve pats the spot beside him, and Bucky sits down, their thighs pressing together, Bucky’s warm skin on the rough denim of Steve’s jeans.

“Oh,” Steve says, while he’s on the topic of jeans. He fishes into his pocket for the hundred he’d stashed there earlier and hands it over, to which Bucky takes with hesitancy.

“You don’t need to pay me, Steve.”

“You’re providing a service,” Steve reasons, “You deserve it.”

“Is that all I am to you? A service?”

Bucky sounds hurt. Steve shakes his head, his eyes wide.

“No, you’re more than that. Sorry.”

Bucky worries at his bottom lip, flipping the bill between his fingers. Long fingers. Delicate. He’d told Steve that when he was younger, he took piano lessons from his grandma. It was the first bit of information that Steve had learned from him. It solidified him; made Bucky feel like more than just a pretty face with skilled hands.

Steve doesn’t mention the twenty in his pocket, or the five in his sock, reserved for the soda machine down the open hall by the booth. His nerves are climbing their way out; Instead of picking at his nails, he’s now bouncing his leg. Bucky notices, of course he does, and he gives the side of Steve’s head a questioning glance after setting aside the money. It’s on the nightstand by the half-full bottle of lube, squished under the edge of the lamp. Bucky takes the remote from Steve’s slack hand and turns the TV off next, then uses that distraction to maneuver himself over, swinging a knee over Steve’s legs and sitting firmly on his lap. Automatically, Steve’s gripping at his waist and tilting his head up for a kiss.

He doesn’t get one.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Bucky murmurs, starting to trail his lips down Steve’s neck. When he reaches a certain spot under his ear, he nibbles lightly and it makes Steve’s fingers spasm.

“It’s not the right time for— for _this_. For what I want to say.”

“Why not?” Bucky asks. His tone hasn’t changed from its velvety timbre, but it still somehow rings different to Steve. He’s expecting curiosity, but what he’s getting, from both Bucky’s wandering hands and his gentle lips, is passive worry.

Steve shakes his head and snakes his hands upwards, running his fingers along the smooth expanse of skin under Bucky’s tank top. He feels like he’s coming home, basking in the feel of him, in the smell; musk and cologne woven into his cotton-soft clothes. “Later,” Steve insists, running his thumbs along the jut of a hip bone, the top of a waistband. “No thoughts, ‘member? That applies to you, too.”

“Is that an order?” Bucky pulls back, giving him a sideways, cheeky smile. God, he’s beautiful. He’s Steve’s pretty little angel. A real devil in disguise.

“That’s an order,” Steve confirms, and although his eyes darken and his tone is stern, he knows Bucky can see the playful flit of a smile that quirks up the corner of his lips, disappearing as soon as it’s there.

It’s really hard to keep his hands off when it’s been so long since they’ve seen each other. Steve has spent every waking moment thinking of Bucky. He’s in his dreams, too, ones of soft laden sheets and darkened rooms; of hushed smiles and mussed hair, dripping wet from a shower they’ve never taken together before.

Steve’s hands roam everywhere. Hips, back, ass, thighs— at some point, Bucky gets impatient, just as he always does, and starts to grind himself down on Steve’s now fully-hard erection, both stimulating the ache and making it ache more, being confined in tight denim that way. He’s _sinfully_ skilled at rotating his hips. He knows just how much pressure to add and what kind of angle works best, and Steve doesn’t want to think about why. He doesn’t want it in his head, that he’s not the only one who gets with Bucky this way, that he’s not special, just another client who’d stupidly fell in love with a hooker.

In his head, he must mean _something_ to him, or else Bucky wouldn’t treat him any differently than the regulars. But he’s thinking too much about it, and their rule was not to think, and so he gets ahold of the back of Bucky’s neck and pulls him down into a hot, desperate kiss, his silent way of saying _I miss you_ a thousand times over. Bucky kisses back with just as much passion and moans into Steve’s mouth as bruises form on his hips.

Gasping for air, Steve trails his lips to the hinge of Bucky’s jaw and kisses there, then again, below his ear, and again, down the line of his neck. Hickies aren’t allowed, so the closest he can get is nail prints and the dull marks from his too-tight grip. It’s selfish, knowing he’s doing it deliberately, despite how the rest of Bucky’s clients might feel about it. It’s selfish, but Steve can’t stop, doesn’t _want_ to stop.

He does it again, what he likes, scratching his short nails down the lower arch of Bucky’s back and feeling a hot rush of breath puff out against the top of his head. Bucky’s squirming already, both trying to get away from the sting and get a move on, his cock hard and insistent in his shorts, tenting the fabric, staining a patch where he’s leaking from arousal. All those other times they were like this, Steve wanted to rush, eat him up ‘til there was nothing but crumbs yet. He still wants that, he _craves_ it, like a nicotine addiction left unmonitored. But this could possibly be the last time he’ll ever get to touch Bucky like this, so he wants to take it slow, just for right now.

“Get your arms around my neck,” Steve instructs, and Bucky does, easily. Steve then flips them to the side and covers Bucky’s lithe body with his own, pressing him into the mattress gently. A pair of ankles cross at the small of his back, holding on. He presses another kiss to the hinge of Bucky’s jaw and meets his mouth with a low hum of approval. It raises the hairs on his arms, to which Steve feels prickling at the back of his neck. He hopes it rubs him red, marking him up like he wants to do with his beard on Bucky’s soft skin.

Bucky arches up and lifts his arms in an attempt to get his shirt off, but Steve stops him before he progresses any further. He’s paying by the hour, and he’s bound to get his money’s worth.

Slowly, baby blues meeting icy greys, he ducks down and rakes his hands up Bucky’s abdomen, dragging his tank top up until it’s bunched right above those two pink little buds, pebbled away from his chest because of the cool air or arousal, Steve can’t tell. He likes to think of it as the latter, but he’s always been self-deprecating, and the thought of being wanted as much as he wants _him_ just isn’t plausible. Mentally, anyways.

Bucky’s shirt gets bunched up beneath his armpits and replaced with Steve’s mouth and hands. Both caress and trace every ridge of his body, from his chest to the top of his abdomen and then back up, to his neck and jaw and pretty, pouty mouth.

“You tryin’a make love to me or somethin’?” Bucky murmurs into his mouth, a smirk on his lips.

That question hits far too close to home, and Steve doesn’t answer. Instead, he slides his hand down and slips it between their heated bodies, palming Bucky from the outside of his shorts. Bucky gets all of three seconds to gasp in a sharp moan before Steve’s forcefully taking his breath away, their mouths pressed together to the point of pinning Bucky’s head down, leaving him immobile from the shoulders up.

Steve hasn’t had his fill yet, and it’s a real struggle not to rush like he always does and then regret it in the morning, per usual, when his limbs are sore and that hard, unmoving rock that sits in the bottom of his chest is back and with a vengeance. Bucky was his drug— _is_ his drug, addicting and all-consuming, eating every last bit of Steve until there’s nothing left but a hollow shell of the man he used to be. He’s so far gone on him and he’s scared to lose it, to lose him, what they have, Bucky’s friends, everything.

So, of course, what he does is the only thing he knows how to, and that’s making Bucky feel like Steve’s not just another client of his; that his hands are rough but gentle, and his heart is loud and searching, locked onto Bucky’s own and keeping it held like a vice.

_Don’t let me go. Don’t leave me. I’m all you’ll ever need._

Bucky sucks in a sharp gasp of air as Steve suddenly wraps a hand around him. From tip to base, he gives him a few strokes that ease a building pressure inside of Bucky’s taut muscles. Pre-cum spills onto his fingers and gets soaked up by the cotton shorts. Steve pulls back so that there’s a few inches of space between them, his weight no longer pinning Bucky down, and attempts to get rid of the offending piece of clothing. Bucky notices his objective and helps by dropping his feet back down and shimmying from side to side, ‘til the shorts are gone and he’s laying bare from the waist down, his cock hard and flushed and curved towards his navel.

He’s got no shame like this. Steve doesn’t know a lot about Bucky, but he does know some pieces of his past, of the fragments and stories he’s either been told or have been referenced by his friends. Prositution wasn’t the job he first turned to. From what it seems, and from what Steve’s heard by the townsfolk, James Barnes was a hard-working young man who happened to get caught up in the wrong people. Poor kid did everything he could to afford enough money to keep his family on their feet; twenty-one years old and having turned to a job society looks down upon, Steve can’t see how he ever got thrown out, discarded like an unwanted pet, all just because his line of work happened to pay better than the convenience store on the other side of town.

One of Bucky’s hands come up to Steve’s face, his thumb smoothing out a building crease between his brows. Though he’s casual about it, Steve can’t help but feel his face heat up. His heart’s going a million miles an hour and his head, arguably, is worse. But how can it _not_ be? His whole world is laid out before him and Bucky, goddamn him, just so happens to be the one thing Steve hasn’t been able to take his mind off since this whole debacle started.

The guiding hand brings his face down further, pulling Steve into a kiss that’s more teeth than tongue. He makes a low sound against Bucky’’s lips and Bucky returns it in kind, back to squirming beneath Steve like if he wiggles enough, that’ll give him what he wants, with his arms held above his head and his back arching on a cry. It could be from the simplest touch or something harsher, something that’ll hurt. Bucky’s always been responsive and Steve, _God_...

He can’t deny a single damn thing from him.

Steve breathes in the air from Bucky’s parted lips and drags his beard along his jawline, making the breath puffing out against his mouth vibrate with a soft chuckle. Bucky loves his beard, and it’s the precise reason why Steve keeps it around. He supposes, along with a lot of things, that it suits his image pretty well; a truck driver with a scruffy face and pair of broad shoulders, out on the road for weeks and weeks and living off of any and all of the food smalltown convenience stores have to offer. But Bucky suits his look, too. He’s more than eye candy, and he’s got a brain, too, which is nice to know. Smart individuals and all that, and whatever it is that attracts Steve like a moth to a lamp. Maybe it’s his body— it _definitely_ was his body at first.

Below him, Bucky’s chest rises and falls in quick breaths, gasping for the air Steve took away. He’s beautiful. Steve wants to get him down on paper, but each time he’s tried, it’s always missing something, whether it be a certain freckle he’s just now spotted on Bucky’s collarbone or it’s his aura, which is always bright and playful. Steve can capture the smile just fine, and among other things, namely his flushed body and pretty, _pretty_ eyes, but personality-wise, he just can’t. It’s out of his league, _Bucky’s out of his league_. Steve wants to learn every bit about him, just as he knows every bit of his body. He wants to explore, wants to conquer; Wants to dish Bucky up on a silver platter and ask about his favorite color (it’s blue) or his favorite season (baseball, Bucky had once said, a laugh on his pretty lips. Then Steve later found out that Winter was his most beloved, because he loved the feeling of bundling up into warm blankets as the rigid cold outside does its work). But he also wants to go deeper than that; scratch past the surface of simple questions and get to the heart, to his chest, and learn what he loves, what’s his ticks, who he looks up to and how he was brought up into this world as the man he is now. Steve wants _so much_ , but he doesn’t know how to get it.

But somehow, he thinks he’ll figure it all out.

Brushing past Bucky’s warm mouth and sweet laughter, Steve puts his beard to use and rubs it right in the space between both of Bucky’s pert little nipples. Technically, he’s not allowed to make any sort of marks that won’t heal within the next hour or so, and technically, Steve’s patience had died out about ten minutes prior to his sudden revelation. Or, well, it wasn’t _sudden_ ; Steve’s known what he wanted and who his heart belonged to for a long time now, but this is the first that he’s actually gotten around to those thoughts in the middle of _foreplay, for Christ’s sake._

Once he’s down to Bucky’s abdomen, Steve glances up and hums an approving sound as a delicate hand threads through his hair. It’s gentle for now, but when Steve tugs down the shorts and gets his lips around the head of Bucky’s cock and _sucks_ , it’s not so much anymore.

“Fuck,” Bucky groans, spreading his legs wider so that Steve has more room to fit into, his shoulders bigger than the state of Texas, or so he’s been told. “ _Steve, Christ,_ ”

Steve’s lust-drunk and hard and probably ruining the front of his jeans with how much he’s been leaking lately. It’s sexier this way, though: to put his pleasure to the side and focus on Bucky, _only_ on Bucky. He rarely gets enough attention for himself, much less any that isn’t directly benefiting one of his clients or, God forbid, his own right hand. Bucky deserves to be treated like the prince he is, and although Steve’s been fought on the topic before— that it wasn’t fair, that he’s the one who’s paying for something Bucky gladly took a talent in— nothing is going to stop him from returning the good time Bucky promises through his scratched-wall advertisements.

It’s been a while since he’s done this. Steve is by _no means_ a virgin. He’s pushing thirty and he’s only known the hooker his heart belongs to for a little over a year now. Before Bucky, he had Sharon, but they were on and off so many times that considering it a ‘relationship’ would be a little overboard. And then, before Sharon, right as he graduated high school, he had Peggy, who also happened to be Sharon’s bestfriend slash step-sister. Sure, he’s had his flings outside of his relationships, like when Sharon broke up with him because she couldn’t handle the weeks Steve would have to spend on the road (and he didn’t blame her, either; it was a mutual, heart-breaking compromise), and he decided that week was finally the right time to experiment with his sexuality.

And Steve knows that it’s not right to jump head-first into the hook-up pool directly after getting his heart broken _again_ by the same girl who happened to be besties with his first love (and first heartbreak); and he also knows that, despite his job, a family life was all he ever wanted after ma died. He knows, alright; his morals have been a swinging dial for the better part of his twenties, it’s just how he works. But in comes Bucky with his pretty eyes and crooked smile, and with his low, flirty voice as he answers calls and beckons men to join him in his bed, on the ugly-patterned sheets and springy mattress— in walks this beautiful, funny, sweet, smart man and suddenly, Steve’s morals have never been straighter in his entire fucking life.

Kind of ironic, considering how very un-straight he’s been lately.

Maybe it’s the memories of their first night that he’s caught up in, or maybe it’s the sound of Bucky’s long sighs and breathy moans above him, but Steve doesn’t even think when he takes the whole of Bucky’s dick straight down his throat. He flexes his throat around him, swallowing him down, and above him, Bucky’s holding himself coiled and still as he gasps and gasps and says, “Oh f- _fuck_ , Stevie!” in this wrecked voice that makes Steve despise his past self for not discarding his jeans any sooner.

Just as he’s thinking about it, Bucky gives a tug to his hair that makes Steve’s spine go liquid hot with pain-pleasure and he demands, “Take your clothes off.” And immediately, Steve does. He has to raise his head back up in order to see what his hands are doing, and Bucky whines at the loss of Steve’s mouth like he didn’t anticipate what he’d have to give up in order to earn what he asked for. Steve presses a kiss to the tip, licking the taste off his lips as he stands up and motions for Bucky to sit up. Bucky does, and goes the full mile and gets on his knees in front of Steve, looking up at him with eyes of innocence while the lower half of his body displays the opposite. The way he moves, the way he knows just how to twist to make each muscle flex and the dip of his back arch, _God_ … no wonder he’s the favorite of the hooker trio he and his friends make up.

On the dirty carpet of the Motel floor, Bucky’s skin is pale and flushed and his hands are deft as they unbutton and unzip Steve’s jeans. The thatch of thick curls on the top of his head fall a little more onto his forehead, blocking the view of his icy eyes. Bucky flicks them away with a quick tilt of his head and Steve helplessly, hopelessly, lips parted and hands on each one of Bucky’s narrow shoulders, huffs out a small groan as the denim gets tugged down to mid-thigh and both of Bucky’s hands grab each of his cheeks and _squeeze_. His mouth follows directly after, wrapping his lips around the first few inches of Steve’s cock, his tongue doing wonders to the underside of it. Steve gives his shoulders another squeeze and works the rest of the tank top off of him, having to interrupt Bucky’s skilled mouth in order to do so. But God, it’s a fair price to pay; now he gets to see the full expanse of Bucky’s chest, from the top of his blushy cheeks to the dull beard burn on his chest and abdomen.

Steve cards his fingers through the dark fringe on Bucky’s forehead and pushes it back, using both the hold and the view to his advantage. Sinking low onto his cock, Bucky moans around him like he’s the tastiest lollipop out there. Steve vaguely hears himself mumbling out incoherent praise, something along the lines of how good he is, of how pink his lips are, like they were made for this job, like they _belong_ on Steve’s skin and Steve’s cock and wherever else Bucky will press his mouth to. They’ve never switched roles. It’s too intimidating, going straight from fucking a guy to being the one who’s _getting_ fucked. But Steve thinks that maybe, just maybe, if he got past this bump of emotion and actually got around to asking what he’s been dying to, then he’d like to try it out. Bucky is someone he can whole-heartedly trust, and he knows that too is another tally onto the list of things he knows shouldn’t have happened. First comes the hook-up, then comes love, then comes trust, and next he’ll be a slave to Bucky’s every command.

It’s not that he’s complaining, all things considered. It’s also getting harder and harder to think correctly while the hot mouth wrapped around him keeps on sucking, but what does it matter, anyways. Steve’s always been under Bucky’s thumb when they get like this, and probably even when they’re not, too. He’ll just have to find out first.

Steve tugs at the hair between his fingers to signal for Bucky to come up. Cool air rushes into the space where Bucky’s mouth used to be, but then it’s remedied by a kiss that makes Steve groan, tasting himself on Bucky’s tongue. “Bed,” He orders, to which Bucky complies, smirking as he goes. There’s condoms in the drawer and lube on the nightstand. Steve heads for the drawer first, grabbing both items while Bucky gets comfortable, spread out in the middle of the mattress. His arms are folded behind his head, one leg propped up while the other lies flat, creating a center point for Steve’s eyes to immediately get drawn to, which they do, and end up helplessly gazing at until he’s snapped out of his haze by Bucky’s soft chuckle.

“You always look at me differently,” He says, smiling. “Like I’m the Mona Lisa.”

For a few seconds, Steve does nothing but smile back. “You’re my _Moan_ a Lisa,” He replies eventually, grinning at the laughter following his stupid pun. Steve is, in no account of the word, as attractive as Bucky when he’s laughing like that; his head all tipped back, his mouth open, teeth glinting in the dim afternoon light. Bucky’s got this air about him that Steve’s never had the chance to master. It’s hard, knowing where to start. He’s all hard lines and bulk and Bucky’s gentle and soft around the edges; What he is, is every stereotype of a twink rolled into one and yet he’s still different, standing out like a colorful painting on a bland wall. Steve’s fingers itch for a pencil, and he runs a finger down the cleft of Bucky’s chin, tracing him out, before planting a kiss that’s maybe a little too soft, too loving, on his smiling lips.

Steve shuffles between Bucky’s spread thighs, his arousal no longer an immediate need, although it still bubbles hot in his stomach. It’s stifled now; the beast momentarily tamed. “You really are,” He says lowly, their noses brushing against each other. “You’re gorgeous, inside and out.” Bucky’s hands come up to his face real gentle-like and pull him down into a deeper, lingering kiss, making the entirety of Steve’s nervous expression fall dazed.

But instead of replying to him, Bucky keeps at the kiss. It’s deep and hot, tongues brushing together, teeth catching on lower lips. By the time Steve’s subconsciously rolling their hips together, he’s got no memory of what he was talking about prior to Bucky and his goddamn mouth. He gets the point soon enough: now’s not the time to talk. That’s for later, when they’re done, and when Steve has to suck it up and be a man for once, with his heart and life and love on the line.

It’s a no-brainer what he does next. Bucky’s soft, and warm, and wiggling, and he keeps making these little, breathy moans against Steve’s mouth each time their cocks bump together. With the bottle of lube he’d been accidentally gripping too hard in his right hand, Steve slicks up two of his fingers and gets stopped by a hand on his wrist, and Bucky’s sparkling eyes looking up at him. “You don’t gotta,” He says, a smirk upticking the corner of his mouth. But Christ, he’s an angel. “I knew you were comin’, so I prepared myself already.”

Steve’s brought to the moment he and Nat shared, out on the rickety plastic chairs while the wind blew away the wisps of cigarette smoke. He thinks, briefly, that it’s a shame he doesn’t get the honors of preparing Bucky until he’s crying, _begging_ , for Steve to get a move on. But then that thought gets replaced with a wave of heat that heads directly south, knowing that he was a door away while Bucky got himself all stretched out, and all for _Steve_ , who sat cluelessly a few feet away, his nerves running a million miles an hour.

With a soft groan that ends up tapering off into a chuckle, Steve uses his slippery fingers to instead roll a condom on and slick himself up, humming low and relieved into the crook of Bucky’s neck. The hands on his face slide around his neck and hold him close, and Steve’s hips line up almost on autopilot. Though they’ve done this before, and in multiple rounds, Bucky’s never let them get into the missionary position. It’s too personal, with their faces that close; far too easily can their eyes meet. Steve supposed that it made sense: Bucky didn’t want to grow attached or the other way around, and so he kept it strictly sex work and in the many positions his flexible body could handle. Steve isn’t getting stopped, though. This is the farthest he’s gotten to kissing head-on while fucking into him and it’s _amazing_ , damn near _spectacular._

Steve’s heart is practically beating out of his chest as he pushes in, sliding past the stubborn ring of muscle and sinking low, low, low into that tight, hot heat, gripping him like a vice.

“Fuck,” Steve chokes out, electricity running up his spine. Bucky makes a similar choked response and tips his head back against the pillows. Steve fills in the space with his own head, scraping his beard raw against the pale skin of Bucky’s neck as their hips finally come together. It’s good, _too_ good. Bucky’s tight and hot and clearly not as prepped as he used to be, considering the good twenty minutes he and Steve spent dancing around each other like scared school crushes. Given the pinched look on Bucky’s face, Steve knows he’s right. “You alright?” He manages.

Bucky releases his lower lip with a soft sound, like he hadn’t even noticed he’d been biting on it until it was too late. “Mm,” He hums, smiling slowly. “Always forget how big you are.” And that— Christ. Steve’s heart and ego are now hand in hand, at this point.

“Need me to take it slow?” He asks, feeling both concerned and smug. Leave it to Bucky to give him that sort of mix. But Bucky just shakes his head and says, “Slow isn’t something you should even _consider_ around me. M’not made of glass; I can take you just fine.”

“But it hurts,” Steve presses.

Bucky gives him a look that says it really doesn’t matter, and Steve shuts down immediately. Bucky laughs softly, bringing his wrapped-up hands up into Steve’s smooth hair and tugging him down into a kiss. He says into his mouth, “Just fuck me, Stevie.” And it’s that nickname- that teasing, fond nickname- that pleases Steve more than having his dick shoved into something that hot and that soft. Although, to be fair, it’s a little bit of both that start to drive him crazy. Pulling back out at a pace that makes both of their toes curl, Steve waits for the go ahead in Bucky’s quick, labored breathing and shoves back in, punching a surprised moan out of Bucky’s pink, pink lips.

“Like that,” He gasps, his hands creating stinging pinpoints all across the top of Steve’s head. Steve doesn’t care; he likes the pain, almost as much as he likes the way Bucky creates it. "God, Stevie-"

It's been awhile since Steve's been able to have this: Bucky, gasping and writhing beneath him, a smile on his lips that gets covered by involuntary moans. It’s also been far too long since he’s had the pleasure of something else that isn’t his own hand, and so at first, it’s a real struggle not to have his way with him. A high sex drive and nothing but open roads haven’t been a good combination, and Bucky knows this first hand. Or, at least he _seems_ like he does, because Steve’s only five minutes into building up a steady pace when Bucky suddenly arches his hips up and begs breathlessly for Steve to fill him up, to _come_.

Steve laughs and groans as he does, shoving his face into Bucky’s exposed neck. Technically, he has a condom on, which means Bucky won’t feel a damn thing while it’s happening; and technically, Bucky has also never given a shit about such. He still moans like it’s the hottest thing in the world to feel Steve spasming inside of him, and maybe it is. His poor cock is leaking so much pre-cum onto his stomach at this point that Steve can’t honestly say _what_ is turning him on, just that whatever it is, is doing a pretty damn good job.

Just as the high subsides and his body starts ramping up for a round two, Steve lifts his head and blinks blearily down at Bucky’s smug face. “You said that just to see if I would follow through,” He accuses.

Bucky hums at him, pushing the blond bangs out of Steve’s face. “It worked, didn’t it?”

Steve rolls his eyes and pretends not to grin when Bucky’s breath stutters, his hips shifting restlessly. Steve’s still buried to the hilt inside of him and rolling his hips forward in minute motions, barely even moving at all. But Bucky’s responsive and probably even on the edge, so it’s enough to cause some frustration. _Good_. “It’s almost as if you don’t want to be fucked at all,” He drawls, teasingly. “Too worn out from someone else?”

“Didn’t have anybody else today,” Bucky mumbles, like it’s an afterthought to his real response, which is, “I want to be unable to walk in the morning, just like you promised last time, ‘member?” Steve does remember. It’s what has fueled his jerk off sessions for the past few months. “You’re still hard, and now you’re just teasing me for the hell of it. Come _on_ ,” Bucky whines, arching up against Steve’s bulk. “You’re wasting money the more you wait.” It’s a feeble attempt to coerce the logic part of Steve’s brain to the surface, but what that comment ends up doing is making the hard knot in his chest tighten, once again feeling as though he’s nothing more than another client.

Hiding his face so that Bucky doesn’t see the sudden apprehension in his expression, Steve pulls out slowly and shushes away any of the protesting sounds that follow the movement. Once he’s no longer wrapped up in tight heat, he discards the condom and slips a new one on. In the end, Bucky gets tested regularly and he never accepts clients without the approved papers of a negative test first, and it’s not like Steve’s getting any from other people. Still, he wants to be careful, just in case.

He pushes back in just as Bucky’s about to reach for his own dick and grabs the hand slipping down his abdomen, pinning it to the mattress above Bucky’s head. Bucky arches up again, this time to fully get a good grip around Steve’s hips, as well as get him as deep as possible. The other hand, Steve lets tangle in the bedsheets. “Not wasting anything,” He mumbles absently, starting to pick up the pace. It’s slow, but it’s starting to gain speed. Bucky’s using his thighs to drag Steve in each time he’s almost out, nothing but the tip inside as it gets pulled in over and over and over again.

Still sensitive from his previous orgasm, Steve can’t help but let Bucky take the reigns, just for a little while. Just until he’s able to see straight without going cross-eyed. Their faces are so close, and Bucky’s eyes are clouded and his pupils are blown— if Steve had to guess, his are, too. It doesn’t take much; one look at Bucky and he’s rearing to go, no matter the situation. Sometimes it’s inappropriate, how his mind drifts to Bucky at the most impromptu of moments. Sometimes, like most, it’s when he’s lonely, sitting stop of the sleeper cab in his truck with nothing better to do than think; think about Bucky and how he is now, with his head tipped back and face twisted up in ecstacy; think about how he’d look wrapped up in Steve’s arms in his Brooklyn apartment. Think about their relationship, and how he’s gotten himself into this mess.

Bucky’s moaning something, repeating Steve’s name in a broken, high voice as he tumbles closer to the edge and suddenly it’s the only thing Steve can hear. “Yeah,” He breathes, voice rumbling with a gravelly edge that makes Bucky’s thighs start to shake. “ _Christ_ , yeah. You’re so gorgeous like this, Buck. So beautiful.” Steve can’t take his eyes off of him. He’s entranced, and when Bucky starts to gasp, starts to shake everywhere else, he does him a favor and starts _really_ giving it to him, the sound of skin slapping skin filling the room obscenely.

Nails scratch down Steve’s back, creating lines of red Steve will end up gazing at later. Bucky makes a long, low, “ _unhh_ ,” noise and whimpers as his cock spurts between them, dirtying up both of their abdomens. Steve’s so wrapped up in Bucky’s expressions that he doesn’t even realize he’s coming afterwards until that heat in his gut grows, filling him from head to toe with white-hot pleasure. This time it’s all-consuming. This time, Steve thinks, while the world spins and his chest rises and falls quickly, there’s nothing left of him to give.

Feeling spent, Steve collapses on top of Bucky and rolls to the side, his vision still blurry— from tears or from being overwhelmed, he doesn’t know. Bucky lolls his head to the side and meets his eyes lazily. He looks to be in the same boat. He’s smiling, though, and his eyes are bright, his face flushed. It brings out the blue; makes him look so, so much more younger than Steve. He’s twenty-three and Steve’s thirty, but _God_ , he feels ancient. He feels as though he’s lived far too long without having Bucky on his side, like they were meant to be together from day one, but this timeline was corrupted in order to cause Steve the turmoil he’s been experiencing lately. Like maybe they really are meant to be, and it’s not just Steve’s dumb heart that’s the problem.

Bucky’s head comes to a rest on his chest, his soft curls tickling Steve slightly. With effort, he brings a hand up and cards Bucky’s hair out of the way, so that he’ll be able to see his face. He’s hoping for bliss, something of a post-orgasm expression, but most of what he sees is exhaustion, and not the kind the proceeds their little workout together. He looks like he’s juggling the weight of the world on those light blue eyes, which don’t quite meet Steve’s own. Feeling laden with nerves, Steve smoothes his thumb along the gaunt bone of a cheekbone and gives Bucky a confused, helpless look. He then asks, as if his worried curiosity hasn’t gotten across enough, “Did I do something wrong?”

That makes Bucky fully look at him. He shakes his head, a strained smile playing at the corner of his lips, now not as flushed and bitten as they had looked earlier. “I just don’t want you to go away again,” He admits, softly.

Steve has no clue what to say to that. This, if any, has been the first time Bucky has ever expressed dread for the inevitable. On one hand, Steve loves his job; loves the freedom he has with it, and how he gets to travel across the county just as he had always wanted to, and without the burden of travelling costs. And he met Bucky this way, too. Otherwise, he doubts their paths would have crossed; no regular citizen from a crowded place in Brooklyn would ever willingly come to New Jersey just for the trip, and especially not for the hookers, either. But on the other hand, the time he spends away, from both friends and Bucky, is real hard. Not just for him, but for the people around him, too, as Sam and Sharon and, of course, Bucky had now confirmed. But Steve’s got a remedy for that, it’s just that right now isn’t the time.

Or… maybe it is.

“I’m here now, aren’t I?” Steve says in a voice he hopes is as soothing as he wants it to be. Bucky hums a wordless agreement. It isn’t what he wanted to hear, and Steve knows that. Unlike how he acts when they’re in the midst of sex, Bucky isn’t as open with his emotions. At best, Steve could get a read of his expression and figure it all out from there, but his guesses have been exceptionally moot lately, and it’s not like he can’t just ask. “Penny for your thoughts? You know, we technically weren’t supposed to have those today.”

Bucky huffs out a small chuckle, rolling his eyes. “No, we really weren’t. Can't help it,” He says, drawing a circle on Steve’s chest with the tip of his pointer finger. Both of their eyes track the movement idly. “It’s just… complicated. Clint’s been gearing up to go for a month now and if he’s gone, Natasha is gonna follow suit. Then it’ll just be me here. Me and my clients.” He looks up, then, and his expression is still tired, but his eyes are moving, like he’s trying to search Steve’s face for a sign of understanding. Steve does, in fact, understand; and way more than he’d like to admit.

“I know it’s not logical to assume that this is how things are always going to be. I’ve known for a while now that people like us don’t get happily ever afters, or that if they do, it likely won’t be me. Clint maybe, he’d actually end up deserving it. But not me or Tasha.” Bucky finishes quietly, and just like that Steve wants to tear down the world just to put a smile back on his face. It breaks his fucking heart, hearing how defeated Bucky is over his possible future.

“Do you like it here?” Steve asks. “I know that besides me, there aren't many people who— ya know.”

“Use me?” Bucky fills in, mumbling it.

“Use your _service_ ,” Steve insists, scolding him lightly. “It’s a small town, and there’s plenty of sex workers to come by. You can…” And here it is, the moment he’s been planning for what feels like a lifetime now. Steve takes a breath, and Bucky’s finger slows to a stop, sensing the seriousness in Steve’s tone as he asks tentatively, “You can always come with me?”

Bucky’s quiet, but not completely so. His breathing doesn’t change and there’s a fine tension in his muscles, but outwardly, there’s nothing for Steve to go off of, for Steve to gauge. Just as he’s about to panic and take it all back, with his heart slowly but surely shattering into millions of pieces, Bucky brings his gaze up to Steve’s own and smiles. He _smiles_ , soft and hopeful, reminding Steve of the children he grew up with in the orphanage he got transferred to after his ma had died. The kids who were chosen to enter a family, and the ones that were no older than nine or ten years old. _Innocence_ in a man who’s far from innocent.

“Y’think?” Bucky asks almost daringly.

Steve’s so giddy that Bucky’s at least a percentage on board that it takes him a few tries to answer. He’s shocked, really; he’d expected to be gently turned down in the way only Bucky knows how to do, using that soft voice of his that occasionally haunts Steve’s lonelier nights. He’d also expected, in the more extreme versions of his worries, that Bucky would laugh at him and ask how anybody is supposed to love a man who gets attached so easily. A big heart is what has gotten him into trouble and heartbreak throughout his entire life. It’s not like he can help it.

“My apartment back home is practically bare-boned. It’s big enough for the both of us, and I can always get a bigger bed so nobody has to hog the mattress. No more disappearing for months on end,” Steve makes sure to add, knowing with certainty that’s what drives people away. “I’ve been with the company for almost eight years now. My run is almost over, and there’s so many young people they could hire. It would do good, giving somebody a job they deserve.”

“And then what? You’ll work at a Starbucks?” Bucky asks. It’s not meant to deter any of the ideas Steve spitballed. In fact, his tone is nothing but amused, and he’s sat up enough to be able to look at Steve and cuddle up to his side, stealing all the warmth the shitty air con heating unit cannot provide. Steve’s eyes get drawn to the small smile on his face, and then he goes ahead and kisses him, too helpless not to. Bucky hums into it, blinking dazedly as they part.

“Almost everything I’ve earned has gotten saved in an account. Not much to spend when all I have to pay for is a percentage of gas on off-routes and snacks from any store I come across.”

“And me,” Bucky says, leaning in for another kiss. Steve happily gives it to him.

“And you,” He confirms, chuckling. They lay in near silence for a few minutes, simply leaning against each other and idly looking around the room. Steve spotted two shadows pass the curtained window earlier, which he assumed to be Clint and Natasha. He’s not entirely sure where they go or what they do when they’re not working. Small town like this, there’s not much at all besides the low-key bowling alley, super Wal-Mart, and pet store. Wandering through his thoughts, Steve eventually decides that being sticky and cold isn’t the best and shifts from under Bucky in order to sit up. Bucky makes a sound of protest but otherwise doesn’t move, planting his hand on the middle of Steve’s chest to keep him from going anywhere. Steve looks down at him in confusion. “Need me to carry you or somethin’?”

Bucky shakes his head. He’s now absent of a smile and for some unexplainable reason, it makes Steve’s heart start to race with nerves. “You know I can’t do that, right?” Bucky says slowly, not meeting his eyes. Steve’s about to question what he means when he continues, “I’ve got too much here. We don’t really know if Clint’s going to leave or not and I can’t just—” He shakes his head again, this time more softly. “I need some… time. Need to think it over, ask what Natasha thinks of it all.”

He looks up, finally, and Steve can tell that he means it. He really does need some time; time that has perfect reasoning after being springed upon with an idea like that. Bucky’s wary because he _has_ to be, because compulsive decisions have only ever saddled him with pain and abandonment, and Steve wishes that for just once, just for them and them only, that Bucky wouldn’t have to feel like he’s putting his emotions on the line for a better, happier life. Of course, he can have all the time he needs in order to figure that out himself.

“Okay,” Steve says softly. He hesitates for a second, says it again, softer, _okay_ , and nods for confirmation. “If you need anything from me, just ask, alright? I’ll be in the shower. We can— no, nevermind, we’ll save that for later. Just get comfy, ‘kay? I’ll be out quick.” And with Bucky’s thankful response, and even more thankful last kiss, Steve goes on his way.

Just before he heads into the tiled bathroom, he sends one last glance over at Bucky, who’s curled up in the patterned sheets with his hair a mess and eyes lidded. Any minute now, he’ll be drifting off to sleep. And any minute now, Steve will have to come to terms with the passage of time.

And God, does he hope he’s able to.

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve got the second chapter loosely planned out, so if you want to see something between these two, let me know! Do you want more backstory? Specific kinks? Soft aftercare? Yalls ideas are the only things keeping me from abandoning my works when it becomes difficult. And so are kudos!
> 
> And to those who’ve sent in prompts/requests for my [Filth Chronicles](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1629916) series via my [Tumblr](https://ctrl-alt-bucky.tumblr.com/ask), I have them all over 3k right now, so don’t worry! Life’s been kinda hectic with a second job, so they should (I hope) be posted by April at most. <3
> 
> \+ Totally forgot to add but a scene in this is totally inspired by [Elkane's post!](https://elkane.tumblr.com/image/190956004670) Their art is spectacular.


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